


What God Has Joined

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, BAMF!Aziraphale, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Far Future, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffability, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Insomnia, M/M, Panic Attack, Post canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), divine intervention, smiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22872370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: Aziraphale turns to see a card sitting atop the stack of books he'd been sorting; gold ink on paper so white it fairly glowed. Picking it up with suddenly trembling fingers, he reads:We have him. Report immediately.Three centuries after the failed apocalypse, Heaven intends to make Aziraphale an offer he can't refuse.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 114
Kudos: 592
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Summons

They come for him early on a Tuesday afternoon.

They're back in London for the first time in decades; it's been a busy few centuries since the failed Apocalypse and their joint retirement/defection from the hosts of Heaven and Hell. They'd spent most of a century in their quiet little cottage on the coast of the South Downs, re-learning what they could be to each other once they finally had to chance to do so freely. After that they'd traveled, spending a few years or decades in one place or another, exploring the world as it transformed and remade itself in a new era of clean and sustainable technology. They'd made trips back to London every now and then, of course, but they'd no longer felt tied down to the city that had hosted them for two centuries. There was no need for accidental encounters on the street and surreptitious rendezvous. They could go where they liked, when they liked, and there was nothing anyone could say about it. The whole world was their oyster, and they'd taken full advantage of it in a way only immortals could.

Recently, though, they'd been feeling nostalgic, and so they've found themselves in London again, intending to stay longer than just a holiday this time. There's something about this city that speaks to both of them. It was their first real home, after all, and the deep drifts of memories lend a warmth to the city that other locales just can't match, no matter how vibrant or numerous their attractions.

Aziraphale is busy doing a post-move inventory on his book collection (now so large that even a bookshop couldn't hope to contain it), so Crowley has taken himself off to investigate what Soho looks like these days. He'd ended up stumbling over a tiny little patisserie and bakery that Aziraphale would love, and spent far too long picking out an assortment of petit fours, macarons and eclairs to surprise the angel with for an afternoon tea break. Inventory always left Aziraphale hungry and a bit tetchy, as it reminded him of all the books he wanted but didn't yet have. So: tea, and probably a late dinner later. He'd spotted a few promising options around town, although he suspects they'll more likely than not end up at the Ritz for old times' sake – still miraculously in business, even after all these years.

It's a good plan, and he's humming to himself in satisfaction as he leaves the shop, already imagining Aziraphale's delighted expression at the surprise-- when a wave of divine energy drops on him like a bomb, and he staggers. Holy light bursts around him, blindingly bright despite his glasses, and he turns, disoriented, before six pairs of hands grip him tight. He doesn't even have time to cry out before the world drops away from under him, leaving the bag of treats crumpled on the sidewalk, abandoned.

* * *

Some hours later, Aziraphale looks up from the pages of his book and realizes with a start that it's well after nightfall. He looks briefly around the flat, expecting to see Crowley sprawled out somewhere, sleeping. They were meant to go out for dinner tonight. He'd heard Crowley leave, earlier, but Aziraphale had assumed he'd returned and simply taken a nap while he waited, as he often did. After a quick glance around reveals no sleeping demon, however, Aziraphale casts his senses out-- and feels no trace of his husband anywhere in the city.

He frowns. Something is wrong. Crowley should have been back by now. He hadn't planned to go very far, and he certainly would have told Aziraphale if anything came up.

He pulls out his phone (an ancient piece of tech nearly a century out of date that Crowley teases him about relentlessly) and has just scrolled to the contact marked _Crowley_ when he hears a chime in the air behind him.

He freezes. That's the sound of a miracle-- something he hasn't heard in centuries. Hearing it so close on the heels of finding Crowley missing can mean nothing good.

He turns to see a card sitting atop the stack of books he'd been sorting; gold ink on paper so white it fairly glows. Picking it up with suddenly trembling fingers, he reads: _We have him. Report immediately._

As soon as he's read it, the note vanishes, leaving only a wisp of smoke curling from his fingertips.

Aziraphale shudders, fears long buried and half-forgotten roaring back to life. Heaven has taken Crowley. His mind whirls, a hundred questions spinning up and vying for his attention all at once. _Why now? It's been centuries. What do they want with him? With us?_

It doesn't matter. There's no time to sit pondering. Crowley needs him. He grabs his coat and is heading for the door, when a glint of light catches his eye, and he turns.

A thin beam of light has fallen onto the stack of books where Heaven had left their note. This should be impossible; it's fully dark outside, and they are high enough up there's nothing that could reflect into their flat. And yet, there it is; a brilliant line of light fallen very precisely onto the open pages of a Bible-- a book he is certain he had not been looking at and absolutely had not left open.

There is no sound, no fanfare to accompany this miracle, but as Aziraphale reads the scant few lines that have been so clearly illuminated, he knows there is only one being this message could have come from. He glances upwards with a cautious smile. “Thank you.”

He can't know Her intent, of course, whether the words are meant as warning or advice, but it is _something_ , at least. He rushes out the door and flicks a finger to miracle a cab to his side.

There's no time to waste. Crowley is waiting.

* * *

Heaven is not as either of them had seen it last. The vast, open facsimile of an office building has been replaced with a space that looks like the inside of a diamond; all hard, sharp lines that reflect blinding light from every angle, flickering like fire just below the crystalline surface.

Aziraphale walks steadily across the endless space, heels clicking softly on the crystal surface. Distance is never quite right in Heaven; the perspective is all wrong and the surroundings never change, making for disorienting travel. It seems as if he's not moving at all no matter how long he walks, and then all at once, with no transition whatsoever-- he's arrived.

The Archangels are arrayed much the way Crowley had described them at his execution. Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, spread in a rough semicircle. Their clothes have changed since he'd seen them last, but their expressions haven't; a veneer of false cheer papered over the harsh edges of self-righteous principle. The kind of smile that told you, _it's nothing personal, just business_ as it tore your life apart.

At their feet is the only dark spot in the endless cavern of crystalline white.

It's Crowley, of course. The demon is kneeling, head bowed and arms bound tight behind his back, ropes wrapped from wrists to elbows. Several rings of glowing circles surround him, binding him and pinning him in place. The air is thick with holy power; the wardings so strong the air shimmers with it. With so much holy energy nearby, Crowley must be in terrible pain, though he's doing his best to hide it. Still, Aziraphale recognizes the tight, pinched look he wears when he's hurting. His long hair is tangled and mussed, matted with blood on one side. His glasses are missing, revealing razor-thin pupils in fully golden eyes bright with fury and fear. Beneath them, he's snarling, teeth sharpened into fangs and scales blooming on his cheeks.

Aziraphale's footsteps echo across the silent crystal space as he grows closer, and Crowley's attention turns to him, expression flickering briefly with relief before it warps into panic.

“Aziraph-” he starts, only to cut off with a gasp as Gabriel lazily flicks his wrist.

“Be _silent_ , demon,” the Archangel sneers, and his eyes radiate smug satisfaction as Aziraphale comes to a stop before them. Gabriel always did love flaunting his power.

Aziraphale, however, does not bend; does not cower as he's always done before. He holds Gabriel's gaze coolly, his expression flat and hard. “I'm here,” he says evenly. “As you requested. Now, why don't you tell me what this is all about?”

He knows what it's about, of course, or he has a good guess. A punishment, several centuries delayed. But he wants to make them say it.

“It's very simple, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says brightly. “We're offering you a chance at redemption.”

“Redemption,” Aziraphale echoes flatly, eyebrows twitching upward just a fraction.

“Yes.” Gabriel smiles, wide and empty. “We've had, well, _quite_ a lot of meetings after your little tantrum during Armaggeddon, and after all that discussion it's been decided to give you another chance. Forgiveness, if you will. Despite your _numerous_ failings, you have, _somehow,_ not Fallen.” He sounds particularly peeved about this fact, but covers it up with a businesslike clap of his hands. “So! Now that you've had some time to think things over, we're willing to offer you a second chance. We'll overlook your little... missteps, and let you return to the fold.”

“How generous of you,” Aziraphale says drily.

“It is, rather,” Gabriel agrees, not catching the sarcasm. He tilts his head, giving Aziraphale a considering look. “Now, we can't let you off _entirely_ scot free, of course. We do need you to give us a good faith effort at correcting your mistakes.”

Ah. And there it is.

“And that would entail--?” Aziraphale asks mildly. Gabriel's smile grows wider and sharper, and his gaze flicks over to Crowley, caught and curled up at his feet.

“Something we should have had done a long time ago, obviously. It's clear we left you alone on Earth too long. You were never a very good angel; it's no wonder you were unable to withstand the wiles of Eden's Serpent. Our own fault, really; we should have known better than to let you out unsupervised.”

His violet eyes glitter, and Aziraphale wonders how he never saw the condescension and malice in them before. But then, had he ever really _looked_ at Gabriel during one of his lectures? He doesn't think so. He'd usually been looking anywhere _but_ the Archangel, eyes darting about as if searching for an escape.

His gaze doesn't waver now. This may not be a battlefield, but it's a fight just the same, and old instincts are coming back. _Stay alert. Eyes on the target._ _Don't lose sight of the enemy._

“--So, we're giving you an order so simple even _you_ can't fuck it up.” Gabriel's smile grows diamond-hard, then, and his eyes narrow with gleeful anticipation. “Smite him, and be done with it.”

Aziraphale looks over to Crowley, whose golden eyes are shining with anguish. He's trembling, clearly struggling against the magic that has him bound. _Angel_ , he mouths, still forced into silence. _Aziraphale-_

Aziraphale looks back to Gabriel. It's funny. He should be afraid. So many times in the past the mere thought of having to report to Heaven would leave him anxious and fidgeting, terrified of their disapproval. Now all he feels is a solid, steady calm; a deep bedrock of resolve that leaves him unshaken, even in the face of Heaven's champions.

“And if I refuse?” he asks calmly.

“We'll know that his influence is beyond our ability to cure, and take matters into our own hands,” Michael says, speaking up for the first time. The holy energy around them thrums as the Archangels flex their will, and Aziraphale sees Crowley flinch.

“Exactly!” Gabriel claps his hands, teeth bared in a wide grin. “It's a simple task, Aziraphale. But if you can't manage even that... then you can share his fate. If you've been corrupted enough that you're immune to hellfire, I suppose we'll simply have to find out whether you've fallen so low that the power of the Divine can destroy you, too.”

“I see.”

He should be afraid. He cannot stand against four Archangels. Even without hellfire, they are more than powerful enough to tear him apart. But all he can feel is a bit of regret, and something like pity.

He sees it, now: the arrogance in Gabriel's eyes, the cool detachment of Michael and Uriel, the sadism and cruelty lurking in Sandalphon's smile. He wonders how he ever let himself believe they were anything else. He remembers how he hurt himself, over and over through all the long centuries, battering his compassion against the implacable wall of their dogma.

The worst of it is, the offer is sincere. They really think that he would want to come back. Of course they do. Theirs is a world of absolutes. He is an angel, angels belong in Heaven; ergo, _he_ belongs in Heaven, no matter how numerous his failings or their disdain for him personally.

They will never comprehend how much more there is to be beyond the narrow confines of their understanding.

As if anything Heaven could offer could compare to the joy of the life he'd made with Crowley.

He should be afraid. They are expecting him to refuse, already anticipating the chance to punish him. But he thinks of words illuminated by impossible sunlight, and feels only love, burning fierce and bright within him like a sword.

He does not bother replying to Gabriel. Instead, he moves over to the circles keeping Crowley trapped, and steps inside.He kneels down in front of Crowley, cupping the demon's face in both hands. The golden eyes are alight with panic. He's shaking. _Angel_ , he mouths, and oh, how cruel of them, to silence him, to take his demon's voice, his questions. _Aziraphale, what-_

“Shh, it's allright,” Aziraphale whispers, and kisses him.

They have kissed many times, these past centuries, and meant many things by it. This kiss is long and deep and fierce, and Aziraphale pours all the love and reassurance he can muster into it. He wraps his calm and devotion around the demon like a mantle, doing his best to soothe without words.

He is not afraid.

Behind him, the Archangels erupt in a chorus of disgusted jeers.

“Aziraphale, what the _fuck_ ,” Gabriel sneers. “A _demon_? You've never been much of an angel, but this is outrageous, even for you. You really-- you're giving up Heaven for _that_? Some corrupted, slimy snake?”  
  
“That line about your demon boyfriend wasn't meant to be _literal_ , you know,” Uriel sniffs, covering her mouth and looking faintly ill.  
  
“We knew you two traitors were working together, but this kind of _consorting_...”Michael grimaces. “ _Disgusting_.”

Aziraphale ignores them. He moves one hand down to Crowley's shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Then, he exerts his magic on the circles, weakening the binding just enough to draw Crowley up with him as he stands, wrapping one arm tight around his shoulder for balance as the demon sways on his feet.  
  
“I'll thank you not to speak about my husband that way,” he says primly, turning back to face the assembled Archangels.

Michael and Uriel are silent, pale with shock and horror. Sandalphon looks ready to choke on his own tongue. Gabriel, on the other hand, looks _furious_.  
  
“Your _what_ ,” he hisses.

“You heard me.” Aziraphale's expression is flat and hard, his eyes glinting like ice. He stands firm, every inch a soldier: spine straight, wings flared, curling protectively around Crowley. He is the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, ready to defend his target or die trying, and he is not afraid.

The Archangels hesitate, caught off-guard by this flagrant defiance, and the corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitches in a satisfied smirk. He remembers Gabriel wearing the same expression on the tarmac at Tadfield, when he'd been confronted with the idea that the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan might not be one and the same. They aren't used to being challenged, and they certainly aren't used to being challenged by _Aziraphale_.

They've never seen him like this, after all; steady and self-assured, rather than cowering and fumbling in anxious terror. _Had_ he ever felt like this, here, in Heaven? He doesn't think so. He'd always been so worried about whether he was doing the right thing, haunted by his own doubts, until finally, in the face of Armageddon, he'd cast them aside and chosen Crowley.

He is choosing Crowley again, now, in front of them all. He is done with hiding. If it means the both of them perish here-- so be it. But he remembers that beam of impossible sunlight, and the words within it, and he has faith that that isn't what She intends for either of them today.

“Strike us both down, then,” is all he says. “I want nothing more to do with the lot of you.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Gabriel snarls. “Fine. You want to throw Heaven aside for some filthy demon? So be it. Just remember, Aziraphale-- we _gave_ you a chance to repent.”

Then he raises his arm, and begins to gather power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger, there. ;) Part 2 is mostly written and just needs final touches/edits, so I hope to get it up soon.
> 
> This fic was loosely inspired by [above us, only sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20069164) in which Aziraphale mentions worrying that Heaven would order him to smite Crowley rather than thwart him. 
> 
> I always like hearing what people think, so if you enjoyed the story, please leave a comment!


	2. Storm

Crowley thought he'd known fear, the last time he'd been in Heaven. Standing before the Archangels and the hellfire meant to destroy his angel, he had been afraid. Afraid that their ruse would be discovered, afraid that the switch wouldn't work after all, afraid that something else would go wrong and he'd lose Aziraphale forever just after he'd gotten him back.

This is worse.

He feels the build of divine power around him, a crackling burn of static in the air, and he tucks himself into Aziraphale's side, desperately seeking shelter. He's shaking and exhausted, aching from the strength of the binding that holds him. Aziraphale had loosened it, a little, but it still claws at him, constricting his movements and smothering his magic down to a tiny flame. It leaves him feeling weak and dizzy, barely able to stand, and certainly not able to survive the hurricane of holy light that is whipping into a frenzy around them. There's no air in Heaven, exactly, but it's a storm all the same, a furious knot of energy and power that catches at the edges of his essence and threatens to pull it apart at the root.

He's terrified, and he doesn't _understand_.

Oh, he understands what Heaven's doing. Really, he thinks, he should have expected something like this. But it's been so long now since they stopped the Apocalypse, and he'd gotten comfortable. Let his guard down, just a little, after feeling safe for so many years. Of course that's when they'd come for him. Of course Heaven wouldn't _really_ leave Aziraphale alone.

No, what he doesn't understand is _Aziraphale_.

Crowley knows Aziraphale would never hurt him. As soon as Gabriel made the offer, Crowley had known he was doomed. Aziraphale would never hurt him, but that means-- that means Heaven will destroy him. And Crowley too, of course, but that isn't important. The important bit is that Aziraphale has openly defied Heaven and now he's protecting Crowley like an idiot, and Crowley can't _do_ anything. They're both going to die here, and Crowley is helpless to stop it.

It's a bitter truth to swallow. No surprise, then, that he's choking on the fear of it.

But Aziraphale-- Aziraphale doesn't seem to be afraid, and Crowley doesn't understand. Aziraphale is clever, and cunning, too, in his own way, but this-- there's no escape from this. There are no tricks left for them to pull, and they certainly can't fight their way out-- although Crowley half expected Aziraphale to try anyway out of sheer blessed spite. But the angel isn't doing _anything_ ; just standing, calm and implacable in the face of annihilation, like a cliff facing down a tsunami.

He must have _some_ plan, but for the life of him Crowley can't fathom what it might be.

It's getting harder to think now, anyway. The air hums with divine power and it _burns_ him; not just his corporation, but his self, his very essence, eating at the edges of him like acid. His throat constricts in what would be a scream if he could make any sound at all, and he leans harder against Aziraphale, burying his face in soft white feathers, wanting to cling but unable to do so with his arms bound behind his back.

The sharp, metallic smell of ozone builds in the air, a bright light that hurts even with his eyes turned away, and Crowley knows it won't be long now.

 _We had a good run,_ he thinks. Three hundred years, that wasn't so bad, right? More than humans ever got, even if it wasn't much in terms of an immortal's lifespan. _At least I'm here with him, at the end. At least we're together. I wish we'd had more time. I wish--_

And then power crashes down on them, over them like a wave; a crushing, overwhelming pressure squeezing him tight. Crowley has been smited before, and he braces himself for the lightning crackle of agony through his veins, the sense of his infernal magic being burned away. The raw, scoured-out feeling that felt so much like the Fall, reminding him of everything he'd been and why it had been taken from him, how _unworthy_ he was.

It doesn't come.

The power swirls around them and _through_ them, a riptide current, tugging and twisting at his essence-- but it doesn't hurt. He can feel the sheer strength of it, the atom-deep force that hung stars in the sky and set planets spinning around them. The power of Creation, the Word that spoke the universe into being. _Her_ power.

He feels Her power and Her presence flow through him, and for a moment, it almost feels like it had been before the Fall, when he had the light of Her Grace filling him up. He feels the ghostly weight of wings on his back, his current pair and the four he lost. She knows him, She _sees_ him, all of him, and it's glory and awe and terror all at once.

For the barest moment, he can nearly remember his old name.

Then it's gone, and the sudden absence is more painful than even the soul-deep burn of holy light; an icy chill that leaves him feeling lonely, lost, forsaken, _alone_.

He shivers,whimpering without sound, and soft feathers curl around him, warm arms holding him tight. He remembers, then. He's not alone. He has Aziraphale. Aziraphale who stands at his side, steady and warm and still so, so calm.

The air clears, the impossibly bright light fading to reveal the four Archangels, all of them standing stock-still in stunned silence. Michael has her sword in hand; it clatters to the ground, and the ringing of metal on stone echoes through the vast empty space. The silence that follows feels even louder; the air so taut with tension it's ready to snap.

“Hh.. _how?!”_ Gabriel gasps at last. Crowley isn't sure what raw terror looks like on an Archangel, but he thinks this might be something close. “It's not possible. It can't be.”

“All things are possible for Her,” Aziraphale says softly, and it rings across the silent space like a shout. He shifts, pulling Crowley even closer against his side, tucking his wings back from their flared position. “ _Mark 10:9: So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined, let no one tear asunder.”_

Something in Gabriel's face _twists_ at that. “What. The _fuck_. Are you _talking_ about,” he snaps, face tight with baffled rage. Behind him, Uriel and Michael lean closer together, whispering furiously.

“I'm really not sure what's so difficult to understand about this,” Aziraphale says, in his most condescending tone. “I told you. He's my husband. We _won't_ be parted, not by you, not by anyone.”

“That's not—that's for _humans_ , and you're not—” Gabriel scowls, practically snarling as he sputters, “And anyway he's a _demon,_ you can't have-- it can't be a _holy union_ if half of it is _unholy--”_

“She doesn't seem to think so,” Aziraphale replies mildly.

Crowley is starting to wonder if he actually has died, or is dying, and this is all some sort of bizarre hallucination. Surely this cannot really be happening. Aziraphale is not quoting _the_ _Bible_ to a bunch of _Archangels_ as a- what, a defense? An explanation? What just _happened?_

Aziraphale can't- He can't possibly be implying that- that She- She _intervened_ to- to what? Save them? Save _him?_ That's not- it _can't be._ Crowley is half out of his mind with fear and exhaustion. He's missing something. He's misunderstood somehow. She hasn't talked to anyone in centuries. In _millennia_. She doesn't intervene, doesn't do _anything_ anymore, for better or worse. So She certainly wouldn't-- and not for _him_ , a _demon_ , not, not after--

Aziraphale is still talking, his voice soft and warm and sure, and Crowley abandons that terrifying line of thought and clings to his angel's certainty. He doesn't understand what's going on, but Aziraphale is here, and Aziraphale understands, and maybe that's enough for now. He slumps into the angel's side, letting Aziraphale's voice soothe some of the terror away.  
  
“I tried to tell you, Gabriel, all those years ago,” Aziraphale says. “Nothing happens that isn't Her will. It's Ineffability. You blame us for stopping your War, but we couldn't have done any of it if She didn't want it to be stopped.”

“What do you know?” Gabriel hisses, “You're just some lowly _Principality._ You don't know Her will. You don't know _anything._ ”

“And I don't presume to,” Aziraphale says. “Unlike the lot of you. I had faith, and it was answered. Clearly.”

Gabriel lunges forward then, snarling, only to be stopped by Michael's hand on his arm. “Gabriel, _enough.”_ She looks at them both with a gaze sharp as her sword, mouth pursed tight in disapproval. She pulls Gabriel to the side and leans in close, speaking in a tense undertone. It's clear she doesn't intend for them to hear, but Crowley's hearing has always been sharper than it should be.

“Gabriel,” she says again, quiet but firm. “It's clear that something is going on with these two. First they survived hellfire and holy water, and now this...” She hesitates. “If they have Her blessing...”

Gabriel yanks his arm away, still glaring at them as he hisses back. “What _blessing_. It's a trick, it has to be. Why would She spare them? They're traitors!”

Michael frowns. “ _Whatever_ they are now-- it's nothing we're prepared to deal with. If She has something in mind for them... is it really our place to interfere?” She drops her voice even lower, soft enough that Crowley strains to hear. “Besides. We don't want to risk any... misunderstandings. Not after last time.” She shoots a very pointed glare at the both of them, and Crowley flashes a thin smile back, fangs bared. Michael looks as if she'd very much like to roll her eyes, but contains herself. “It's not worth it,” she mutters.

Gabriel's jaw works as he grinds his teeth, clearly frustrated, but eventually he huffs. “Fine. Whatever. Have it your way,” he scowls, stepping to the side.

Michael steps forward then, all cool professionalism, hands clasped behind her back. “Principality Aziraphale,” she says, “we have made you an offer, and you have refused it. Understand-- we will not make this offer again. If you leave now, you will not be welcome back.”

Crowley snorts. _As if he ever was._

“Yes, I _do_ think that point has been made _quite_ clear,” Aziraphale sniffs, and Crowley huffs a silent laugh against his shoulder. He can't see Aziraphale's face from this angle, but the angel's voice is positively dripping with disdain. Crowley suspects he'd be rolling his eyes if it weren't so undignified. “As I already said, I want nothing more to do with any of you.”

Michael purses her lips, but nods. “So be it then. You and your--” she hesitates, as if the word _husband_ leaves a rotten taste in her mouth. “You and the demon are dismissed.”

“I'm glad we all agree,” Aziraphale says briskly. “Now, if you would be so kind as to remove these bindings-- I think we're _quite_ done here.”

Gabriel's face twists, but he snaps his fingers, and the other Archangels follow suit with swift gestures of their own. Crowley feels the bindings loosen, ethereal and physical ropes both dropping away. It leaves him off-balance, suddenly unsupported, and he sways, forcing himself to stay upright. He refuses to fall down, not here. Not in front of them. He's spent too long at their feet already.

Aziraphale catches him, bracing him with an hand on his shoulder until he can stand on his own. He tucks his wings away, then draws himself up, tugging his coat back into place as he addresses the four Archangels. “We'll be going now. As I said before: I think it will be best for everyone if we're left alone in the future, yes? Please _do_ try to remember that this time.”

And with that they turn and walk (or in Crowley's case, stagger) out of Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally outlined in three parts, and then I thought I could combine the second two into one... but then part two got way too long and felt unbalanced, so back to three it is.
> 
> Stay tuned next time for the comfort part of this hurt/comfort!


	3. Solace

The second their feet touch Earth, Aziraphale teleports them back to their flat.

Crowley has just long enough to register their surroundings-- the piles of Aziraphale's books, the well-worn furniture draped with blankets, his plants-- and then he falls apart.

“Angel,” he gasps, just to prove he can, and buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, breathing in the scent of him. He grabs fistfuls of coat in his hands, clinging for all that he's worth, trying to reassure himself-- _he's here, he's here, we're alive, we're safe_. Aziraphale is holding him right back, running hands up and down his back in long, soothing sweeps and murmuring soft comforts into his ear.

It's not enough. He presses closer, wanting more, trying to bury himself in the angel's presence, wishing he could crawl inside his chest, maybe. His terror is a sharp, wild thing battering itself against his ribs, and he doesn't know how to make it stop wailing. Aziraphale is doing his best, but Crowley can't even hear the words he's saying, doesn't know how to stop shaking. He wants- he _needs_ something, and he _can't_ -

It's all too much, suddenly, and he's honestly not sure if he intends to change or not, but he finds himself abruptly sliding into serpent-shape, draping himself over Aziraphale's arms and shoulders in great looping coils.

It helps, a little. The air in the flat is cool, and he feels his heart slow with it, feels some of the panic ebb away as his body temperature drops. Curled around Aziraphale like this, the angel's scent surrounds him, wrapping him up like a blanket. He can feel the unnecessary heartbeat thrumming through his belly and his bones, a constant reassuring drumbeat.

Slowly, slowly, he begins to relax.

They're home. They're both still here. They're safe- or at least as safe as they ever were before. Maybe a little more, even. He doesn't see the Archangels going after them again, not after that shock. Not after _She-_

He cuts that thought off with a vengeance. He can't think about that right now. He needs to think about something else.

Aziraphale is stroking his head, soft fingers running gently along smooth scales, murmuring soothing nonsense, and he lets himself get lost in the sensation of it. The repetition calms him further, and after a moment Crowley lifts his head enough to bump his snout against the angel's chin in silent thanks. He's not up for talking, yet. He needs to just-- rest, for a while. Gather himself.

Aziraphale seems to understand, as he starts in on the ritual of his evening routine-- busying himself in the kitchen, making tea and a little plate of something to nibble on. He sets himself up in his favorite armchair with a book, and settles in for a night of reading. But he keeps a hand on Crowley, absently stroking his side-- and he reads aloud rather than silently, offering the occasional bit of commentary or reminiscing about some bit of history. Crowley doesn't reply, letting the rumble of Aziraphale's voice, the patter of his words wash over him like rain.

They've spent more nights than he can count, now, like this-- Aziraphale reading and Crowley curled up against him. Usually, it doesn't take long at all before the quiet, steady rhythm of Aziraphale's voice lulls him to sleep. Crowley feels himself falling into that same stupor again now-- there has been an awful lot of stress and a not-insignificant amount of physical pain in the past few hours, and he's exhausted.

But he can't sleep.

As soon as he feels himself slipping towards that edge, he's jerked back awake by the sudden memory of the ambush, angels dropping out of nowhere to surround him, their fingers digging into his arms as they dragged him away-- and all at once he's tense again, coils clinging tighter around Aziraphale and tongue flicking madly as he scents for any possible danger.

There's nothing, of course. Just Aziraphale, books, tea. The scents of home and safety.

He's safe. They're safe. Everything is fine.

But it isn't.

It goes on like that all night. He can't fully relax, can't let himself believe he's safe, caught in a loop of frantic _what ifs,_ his mind unable to quiet despite the stillness of his body. He knows, he _knows_ they're safe enough for now; but every time he starts to drowse the panic comes back, the terrible fear of being bound, helpless, silenced, while Aziraphale was in danger.

Eventually, morning comes, lighting up Aziraphale's curls in a halo of gold. Aziraphale runs his fingers over Crowley's head, his sides; a gentle question asked in soft touches.

“Feeling any better, dear boy?” he murmurs. “I thought we might visit Kew today, if you're up to it.”

He wants to go, he does. He's always loved the gardens, and he'd been looking forward to seeing it again. But the fear still pulls at his skin like scales grown too tight, and he can't bear to put the distance between them that changing back to human-shape would mean.

So Crowley says nothing, only curls tighter around the angel's shoulders and tucks his head under his coils.

* * *

Time passes. The days slip by. He's not sure how many-- he still can't sleep, and while his body doesn't need it, his mind craves the solace of that peaceful oblivion. As the days continue to pass, the exhaustion pulls at him, leaving him feeling like a dried-out husk of himself, his thoughts dulled into a slow daze.

Aziraphale keeps talking; a quiet murmur of sound a comforting hum beneath the dry grit of insomnia. He keeps up a steady stream of commentary as he moves about the flat, sorting his books and caring for the plants, but it's clear he doesn't expect a response, waiting for Crowley to be ready in his own time. They've done this before, after all. It doesn't happen often-- hardly ever, now-- but it's happened enough that Aziraphale understands what to do, offering comfort and patience and support; a steady shelter for Crowley to cling to when everything else is overwhelming.

Aziraphale continues to read aloud in the evenings; all lighter things than his usual fare. Humorous stories and fairy tales, mostly, or pulpy action novels that he knows Crowley enjoys. He sits out in the rooftop garden, sometimes, commenting on the changes to the city's skyline in between books. Once or twice they even go out to the park, Crowley still coiled around his angel like a particularly scaley scarf. The humans don't say anything, and Crowley's not certain if Aziraphale is exerting his influence to push their attentions aside, or if it's a purely human reaction-- _obviously_ no one would walk around the city wearing an enormous black snake, and so surely this one isn't real, and therefore not worth commenting on.

Slowly, slowly, something like normalcy returns. The fear ebbs away, worn down by the steady reassurance of Aziraphale's heartbeat thrumming through his scales, the rise and set of the sun. Day after day, _he's here, he's here_ , and he no longer worries as much about angels descending out of nowhere to snatch him away.

And yet... there's still the other thing.

His thoughts catch on it, dragging it up over and over despite all his attempts to bury and avoid it. They twist and tangle on the one thing he can't understand-- an ever-growing knot made all the worse because there's no possible answer to this puzzle.

He's trying to get a grip, he really is. But every time he thinks back to what happened, his thoughts devolve into a screaming, hopeless loop of _what the fuck, what the fuck, whatthefuck!_

She had personally intervened. To save them. To save _him_. He didn't- He couldn't- what did that _mean_. She never intervened, not anymore, and he wasn't-- he was still a demon, obviously, he wasn't _forgiven_ , but she'd _spared_ him.

That's what keeps nagging at him, what he can't get past. Ultimately, now that the immediate danger is gone, he isn't that bothered by Heaven threatening him. He's been dodging a pounding from self-righteous angels for most of his existence, after all. He's not even that upset about the physical discomfort-- he's a demon, and Hell's Quarterly Reviews had been much more unpleasant. No, the thing that really hurt, and what he still can't wrap his head around, is _Her_ role in the whole horrible situation.

There's no mistaking what he'd felt. It had been Her power, pure Divine Grace, and it should have blown him apart like a supernova. Instead it had touched him, acknowledged him, and then passed through, leaving him unharmed.

_**Why.** _

The thought keeps repeating, driving him to distraction, like a scab he can't stop picking at. All he's doing is bloodying himself in the process, and yet he can't _stop._ _Why. Why? Whywhywhy?_

This is his curse, his curiosity. An impossible hunger to  _know_ , to understand, and of course that's exactly the problem in this case. Because there  _is_ no understanding God's actions, they're ineffable. Unknowable by definition. 

He  _aches_ from twisting himself in knots both metaphorical and literal, and yet he can't make himself let it  _go_ . 

Not that he's not grateful to _not_ be vaporized... well. That's the thing, isn't it. He's glad he's still here, of course. That Aziraphale is still here. That they escaped Heaven's wrath once again. Grateful, though-- that's the sticking point.

The _last_ time She'd been personally involved in his life, he'd been minding his own business and then, between one moment and the next, he was falling, rejected, _cast out_ , the firmament no longer willing to hold him no matter how desperately he flapped his wings. The bright glow of his Grace trailed behind him like a comet as it burned away and he _Fell_ , leaving him hollow, empty, aching.

He _still_ has nightmares, sometimes.

And now She's intervened again, to _help_ him, and all he can think is that it feels like a trap. What is She planning? Is She setting them up for some future torment, something worse? He thinks, sometimes, that maybe Aziraphale was right in his desperate gamble, arguing that their efforts to stop Armageddon were all part of the Ineffable Plan. But even if that's true... that whole experience had been _horrific_. Quite possibly the most miserable, exhausting, stressful years of his immortal life, and that last week worse than all of them combined. Just because it all worked out in the end, didn't mean everything had been _fine_. Sure they'd survived, but the surviving _hurt_.

He twists in on himself, coils tightening at the memory, and below him, Aziraphale pauses in his reading. He turns his head, looking at him from the corner of one too-blue eye. “Darling,” he says, “I can hear you overthinking.”

Crowley gives a very un-snakelike sigh. He's never sure how Aziraphale can tell, but the angel always knows, somehow, when he's gotten trapped in thoughts too tightly wound. His words are a reminder for both of them. Ultimately, Crowley knows there's only one remedy when he gets like this, and that's to talk to the only being in the universe who's ever bothered listening to him. Even when Aziraphale can't offer answers, at least voicing the questions aloud usually helps quiet them, gets them out into the world and not rattling around uselessly in his head.

So he uncoils himself from Aziraphale's neck, shifting into human-shape and ending up nestled against Aziraphale's side, head pillowed on the angel's shoulder.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says gently, smiling down at him. “How are you doing, love?”

“Hnnmngh,” Crowley grumbles into his neck.

Aziraphale huffs a laugh. “I thought as much. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ngh,” Crowley grunts, because he doesn't, but he also does, or he wouldn't have shifted back. He sighs again.

“...how did you know?” he asks, face still turned away, his voice hoarse and rough. That was something else he'd wondered, in between all the _whys_ and _whatthefucks_.  
  
“Know what, dear?”

“That we'd-- that I'd be safe,” he says. “You were so- so _calm._ We were standing in an absolute hurricane of divine power, and you didn't so much as twitch. You _knew_ what would happen. _How?”_

“Ah,” Aziraphale says softly, and sets his book aside. He takes Crowley's hand in his, rubbing at the knuckles softly with his thumb. “After I got Heaven's summons, I received a message. A warning, I suppose, or a hint. From Her.”

Crowley starts at that, his head twisting around to look at Aziraphale. “She _spoke_ to you?”

“No, no, not directly,” Aziraphale says, and he explains then, about the summons, and the light, and the book, and a few very precisely highlighted lines.

Crowley snorts at that and eases back into his slouch against the sofa, closing his eyes. “Cryptic and vague. Sounds like Her brand of bullshit, all right,” he huffs.

Aziraphale's mouth twitches in habitual disapproval before sliding into a fond smile, and he runs his fingers gently through Crowley's curls, brushing them back from his forehead. “Regardless, I'm glad She did it,” he said. “I don't know what I'd have done if I'd had to face Heaven without it. How I would have gotten you out of there.”

Crowley swallows, remembering the terror that had choked him, facing destruction and helpless to do anything about it. He curls in closer to Aziraphale, tucking his knees up tight against his chest.

“I was terrified, you know,” he whispers, keeping his face turned away. “When you first arrived. I- I knew what they were going to ask you. They were gloating about it, before you got there.”

Aziraphale hums softly, taking Crowley's hand and twining it together with his own. “My dear, you know I would never have hurt you.”

“I know,” Crowley says. “It wasn't that. It was--” he swallows thickly. “I knew you wouldn't. But that meant they were planning to-- To punish you. They wanted to. They were counting on it. Hoping you'd say no. And I didn't know what they'd do, if they had more hellfire or they'd just come at you with swords or sssomething elssse--” His voice cracks and he goes quiet, fighting for control as his breaths come too fast. Aziraphale squeezes his hand, reassuring.

After a few moments Crowley gathers himself, and continues. “They were going to hurt you, and I- I couldn't do anything, and I was so afraid I'd have to watch--” he breaks off, shuddering, and Aziraphale bends down to wrap around him, pulling him into an embrace.

“Oh, _Crowley._ Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale curls around him, wrapping him up in a warm embrace. Strong arms hold him close until Crowley stops shaking.

“I'm just real _fffffucking_ _tired_ of _fffucking_ Ineffability,” he hisses at last.

Aziraphale hums in sympathy, holding him tight, grounding him with his warm, steady presence. “I know, love. I know.”

“It's just- ugh,” Crowley grumbles. “If She was going to- to- interfere, She couldn't have just _told_ Heaven to fuck off and let us be?” He waves his arm, gesturing wildly, voice growing steadier as he gathers steam for a proper rant. “Sent them a bloody memo, maybe? Not- not put us through a bunch of elaborate fucking _theatrics_. _Again_.”

He slumps back against Aziraphale when he's finished, wrung out. “I just- it's- nnngh. I don't _trust_ it, angel,” he mutters, curling tighter in on himself, hands clenching in Aziraphale's jacket. “I don't trust that- that this isn't all a trap, some move in a bigger game. That She isn't saving us for- for something even worse down the line.”

Aziraphale is quiet for a long moment, considering. Crowley takes the time to appreciate the warmth of him, the way his chest moves with slow, soft breaths, the languid sweep of his hand as he traces down Crowley's spine. These tactile sensations ground him, banishing the last echoes of his anxious, looping thoughts. The mental silence comes as a sweet relief after days of incessant noise.

“Trust me, then,” Aziraphale says at last.

“Huh?”

Aziraphale smiles down at him. “You say you can't trust Her not to send something worse our way. I don't blame you. So-- trust me, instead. Trust that no matter what happens, I'll be there with you. That I'll protect you.”

Crowley blinks up at him. Oh. That's-

“Nothing will harm you, Crowley,” Aziraphale continues, looking him in the eye, blue eyes shining with a love so fierce and bright he all but glows with it. “I won't allow it. I swore it.”

And Crowley believes him.

If there is one thing in all Creation that he knows, it's that Aziraphale will be at his side, always. That he will fight any enemy, thwart every foe; as Crowley in turn would do anything to keep Aziraphale safe.

“Y-yeah,” he croaks out, throat too tight with emotion to say more. “Sssame.”

He remembers the night they'd made their vows, then. Standing under a vast plain of the stars he'd helped to shape, the Earth they'd saved together solid under their feet. The words they'd exchanged, to seal this thing they'd made between them. _Stay with me._ _Be mine. Walk by my side, always._

The certainty of it thrums through his bones, a warm, soothing balm after so much confusion. He lets it spread through him, settling in comfortably against Aziraphale, unwinding his limbs into his usual loose and boneless sprawl.

His eyes slip closed, but he can feel Aziraphale's smile above him, the way his aura wraps around him like a blanket. He feels Aziraphale clasp his left hand, linking their fingers and rings together. Feels the angel raise it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

“Sleep, love,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I'll watch over you.”

And Crowley finally, finally does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the story, please leave a comment! I love hearing what people think. :3


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